Breaking The Ice
by Soo W
Summary: Kate realises she's being observed. (a Justine/Kate story)


STORY NAME: Breaking The Ice 

AUTHOR'S NAME: Soo W 

DISCLAIMER: These characters belong to WB/Joss/Fox etc etc, but certainly not to me. I'm only writing this for fun and therapy. 

PAIRING: Justine ~ Kate 

SPOILERS: AtS s3 

SHORT SUMMARY: Kate realises she's being observed. 

RATING: PG 

QUESTIONABLE CONTENT: contains F/F implied and mild F/F actual 

DISTRIBUTION: You want it? You got it. Just let me know. 

FEEBACK: Send some to soofic@hotmail.com and be my friend forever.

#

I know frigid when I see it and she's it. She's the type. Shoulder length blonde hair, eyes the colour of denim, skin like carved bone.

Bet she drives 'em crazy down at the seven-eleven. Bet they sidle up with their baskets and get nowhere.

She walks in the place like she's Ms Untouchable and takes a seat at the bar. Soda with ice and a dash of lime. Can't she fucking unwind enough to have a beer? Forced banter with the barman. Covering up for the fact she has no friends here.

She has no friends anywhere.

She's perfect.

#

I see her from the door.

Tonight, like every other night, her attention is cloying. Heavy. Like drowning in maple syrup.

I don't look at her of course, I don't give myself away like she does. Unprofessional. She's looking at me, though, staring, open-mouthed, obvious. Jesus, I know all about her already, before she's even come over.

She is all heat and blush. Her amber hair, the scarlet twist of her mouth, the bar lights reflected in her blood-filled eyes.

She's alone, always. I know the type. Desperation in leather.

I hate her. When she rises to leave the roots of my hair bristle.

# 

"Buy me a drink?"

Blondie twists on her perch, sudden - like she's been goosed with a cattle prod. At least I got her attention. Straight into flight or fight mode, she extends a long, chino-clad leg and plants it on the floor between herself and me. I'm no dyke but I drop my eyes to her thigh and give it an approving glance, just because I know it'll screw with her head.

"What do you want?"

Her voice is bourbon and high tar, a throaty rasp that goes straight to your guts. I never heard her speak before and I was expecting ... I'm thrown for a second, anyway, but I play it cool.

"I'm alone here. I think you are too. I thought we could be alone with each other. You know. Company."

Blank stare. Without speech, she's a doll. She lifts her glass and takes a sip; bubbles pop and ice sparkles and sings; there's more life in her drink, and it's warmer in there too.

"What do you really want, Justine?"

#

She takes it well, all things considered. 

Eyes wide, she covers, pressing her lips together like she's just slapped on some of that lipstick. She sits down next to me and fumbles in the left side pocket of her jacket for a second, bringing out a bill folded neatly into four. Leaning over the bar, she holds it aloft. 

Jesus Christ. 

"You know," I hear myself say, "The bar staff are paid to see customers. You don't have to flash them." 

She doesn't hear. Or maybe I just said it in my head.

Then she has a drink in front of her and is looking at it like it's a crystal ball. Or salvation. For a moment she looks vulnerable. Harmless. And I think, maybe I'm overreacting. Maybe I didn't need to check her out. Maybe ...

Then she turns towards me and speaks. 

I'm a good witness. Usually I am; I mean, I can tell you anything you want to know about the plates on the getaway car, the guy driving it, how many passengers and what the time was by the town clock when the whole thing went down. 

I know she leans towards me and looks me right in the eye. I know her breath smells of spirits and the third button on her shirt is missing and she has a crucifix round her neck. 

I couldn't tell you what she said. 

#

Sour and hot, two of my favourite things. Nothing like whiskey for waking up your tongue and scorching the wings off of those butterflies. I nurse my glass and try to think. Got to think fast. 

So she knows my name. Big fucking deal. She just asked someone behind the bar - they all know me. Playing amateur detective. Means she's noticed me, that's all. 

Well, lookie, lookie. 

God! I'm so stupid sometimes - I amaze even myself.

She's noticed me, you know, as in - Noticed. Fucking hell ... Maybe I had her all wrong ... and I sure can't figure what she's seen that she could possibly like. And the blackened remains of those butterflies have now been eaten by a bunch of rats, writhing and wriggling where my guts used to be. I take another sip and try to drown the bastards.

I still can do this.

"What's your name?"

She looks at me, like she just got slipped a pill. Officer, I swear, it wasn't me that spiked the nice lady's drink ...

"Your name, honey. After all, you know mine."

I take a deep breath and stroke her arm, from the neat seam where her sleeveless shirt ends to the delicate bones in her elbow. Cool skin - like my mother's hand when I had a fever.

"What's yours?"

#

I can't believe she touched me. 

You know, after all these years of LAPD training, you think when it happens to you, you'll be able to deal with it. And not just yank yourself apart so it'll stop, but deal with it gracefully. 

By the book.

Tell the person you're not interested in a firm but nice way. Let them think it's not a problem, that you're flattered they thought of you like that, but ... 

The "but" is always left hanging. The "but" says, "Hey, it's not you, it's me. I'm spoken for, or have a communicable disease requiring ointments, or I'm just frigid, or maybe all three and this prevents me from becoming involved, even in a casual way. Good God, it's certainly not you!"

That's not how it happens though. In reality I'm so astounded I get up and leave, but only in spirit. 

My body is frozen while my mind is jack hammering "ShitShitShitShit ..."

Those hot fingers leave my skin for a second, then she leans forward again and reaches for my neck.

"Kate!"

She freezes. Got to keep talking. If I talk she won't touch me again. 

"My name. Kate. Is ... my name."

She smiles and turns back to her drink.

Now all I have to do is drink up and leave. Look forward. Drink up. And leave. Where's my glass ... 

"That's an interesting scar you have there, Kate."

She's looking at me again. I've always hated being looked at. I force myself to look back to her. She's smiling, and taking off her jacket.

"You want to see mine?"

Shit.

#

She's touchy about the scar. Well, who wouldn't be?

It's not ugly, as these things go - a short string of pearls curled over her collar bone. I've seen worse. I've seen people disfigured; puckered flesh around the remains of a violent gaping hole. But it's not something you show off, a vampire bite, even if it is pretty.

A bite is a bite is a bite. It means you lost.

I don't blame her for flinching. And I kind of respect the way she doesn't hide. Too many people in this goddamned town buyin' polo necks and chiffon scarves. 

I need air.

Easing my jacket off the shoulder, I let the weight of the leather peel away like a skin from my arms and come to rest at my waist. Exposure soothes me. I'm fevered, burning. 

Must be the drink.

Cooling off, it's a while before I notice her gazing at me. Inspecting me. 

Counting the wounds.

#

I've never seen anything like it. Not in all my years as an officer, and I saw some strange things.

A tracery of silver threads runs across her shoulders and over the outside of her arms, like a delicate evening wrap. Each one a tiny scar; she moves and they catch the light.

As I stare, she throws her head back and her coppery hair falls away from her throat. In shock, I see that her neck is unmarked, perfect.

Well, perhaps it would benefit from a wash. But there are no bites.

Before I can analyse, I find myself reaching out my hand and touching that perfect skin, hardly willing to believe, or accept.

She's not like me. She's such a classic victim. She knows about vampires. 

She's never been bitten. 

Like a flamingo, she's flaunting her perfect neck.

#

Blondie has lost it completely. 

She's gaping like a fish, dabbing those cool fingers at my throat, seemingly incapable of coherent speech. When she gets a word out, it's an angry stab.

"How?"

When she gives up being such a princess she really is fucking beautiful. 

I grab her hand and twist it a few degrees. Chanel 19. How ... respectable.

"How, what?"

My lips pucker to make the first 'w' and I let them graze the barely-there skin on her wrist.

She's looking at me like I've done something incredibly bad. And then her face kind of bloats into redness and hot, angry tears start spilling over.

When I said I was no dyke, I meant it. Doesn't mean I never kissed a woman before. Doesn't mean I won't again. Just means I'm not planning to take it up religiously.

Her kisses quench the hot spirits on my tongue.

We get up and leave. I practice being lead by the hand, at a woman's pace.

#


End file.
